Stealing The Scream

She has all sorts of things to say.

She hangs on the wall.

She rarely says anything of importance.

Such a small village,

Such a turbulent life.

Show us what you see,

Tell us all about what you heard.

Suck it all in deep.

Keep the airs down because you will need them.

Steal away the opinions,

Tell us all a tale.

Walking down the dark hallway,

Never trying any of the doors.

She has all sorts of things to say.

Hope I get around to listening.

Her world is filled up,

And she hangs from the wall,

Stolen and frozen in all her good times.

She holds all of the antidotes,

She will watch for the ones with icy stares,

But sleep will avoid her,

And keep her in a constant motion.

She will write about the men,

And the women and you and me.

Telling the tales with a crafty woman’s precision,

Which will often come out short,

Dried, cracked and aged like wine.

All from the heart.

The darkest and smallest of still beating hearts.

She will play all the good notes,

She will do her very best,

To leave us all with beautiful music,

But as she hangs from the wall,

Silence will paint its way around her,

Filling in the spaces to the left and right,

Up and down.

Such are the times like these.

Such are the ways,

She hangs.

All aligned with the time taken,

And the stories she’s told.

All with the constant, carefully worded stories,

Which come out as silence.

Which come out as a scream.

© T J Hellbrew, 2016


Passion comes in many forms.

From the mind,

From the heart.

Passion has driven armies to battle,

Burned cities to the ground,

And ruined lives.

Passion has crossed vast oceans.

Seeking out the foreign,

And pushed men past their fears.

Passion drives people together,

And has been known to drive them apart.

Passion seeks the light,

In the darkest of places,

And the warmth in the cold.

Passion drives the beat in the heart.

Helps us overcome life’s many obstacles,

And forges the friendships we endlessly seek.

But all that aside,

Passion is what drives me to you.

And for that I’m thankful.

And I mean that,

From the bottom of this,

Passionate heart.

© T J Hellbrew, 2016

Rat Race

The city beats are constant,

No matter which one you choose.

Could be NY, LA, Boston, Chicago.

It doesn’t matter,

It never changes.

The days are the days,

And the nights are the nights.

They all carry the same chatter,

The same loneliness, the same cold.

Walk the streets of any of them at night,

The streetlights all hum the same tunes,

And your footsteps will always sound alike.

The people are constant as well.

Faces often remind me of those I’ve seen elsewhere.

Their stories are always the same, too.

Never enough money,

Never enough time to rest,

Always feeling hungry,

And always moving against the wind.

That’s why I live for the early mornings,

Right here by this seaside village.

The promise and mystery,

Of another brand new day,

And the promise of that lacking,

Of a sickening city rat race.

© T J Hellbrew, 2016